


Where the Roses Bloom

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M, Peter pines, quick fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: Did Molly even have a bank account? I had no idea.





	Where the Roses Bloom

 

I heard the frown in Nightingale’s voice as he read, “Nose, bellybutton and eyebrow jewellery?” over my shoulder.

“Oh, no. That’s just Google Ads sir,” I said, welcoming the proximity of his body and trying not to show it. “Not exactly relevant to our case.” I clicked past the ad and found the news article I wanted, linking Josephine Sanders to Harrow School. “This is the one, from May 2011.”

Nightingale leaned forward and read diligently, so close that my pulse did something close to oldskool jungle. I inhaled deeply, surreptitiously enjoying Nightingale’s particular man-in-suit end-of-the-day smell but trying to keep it on the down low.

“This article would seem to imply that the House Master was lying,” Nightingale observed.

He hadn’t moved away, possibly because he was still reading. “My thoughts exactly, sir,” I said, trying to remember what normal proximity should feel like. I was trapped but in the nicest possible way.

An email notification popped up just then, in the bottom right-hand corner of my screen, and at the same time Nightingale’s hand landed on my shoulder. My insides flipped and a wave of sheer pleasure washed though my body as he squeezed, lightly. _PayPal – review your recent purchases, PayPal – review your recent purchases,_ I read nonsensically, over and over, my cursor hovering uselessly while my brain tried desperately to debug. “Good work, Peter,” Nightingale said, too close and too low. His thumb brushed the bare skin of my neck and gooseflesh broke out on my arms, my eyes closing of their own accord. I stayed that way for a while, even after he had walked away.

Later, when I checked my webmail, two more Google sponsored ads popped up. One was for Doc Martens but the kind that laced up to mid-shin, definitely aimed more at the fashion market than Scotland Yard. The second was for a dark purple t-shirt in ladies size XS that proclaimed ‘NOT A MUGGLE’ in a familiar lightening font.   

 

****

 

“Have you been shopping on eBay?” I asked Molly at breakfast, “Only, a lot of adverts for goth clothing have been popping up whenever I’m browsing the internet.”

She ignored me, placing the loaded toast rack and teapot on the table with the same delicacy she would have employed if I hadn’t been there at all.

“I mean, it’s fine if you are. Obviously. Do you even have a PayPal account?” Did Molly even have a bank account? I had no idea. “’Cause if you don’t and you, um, wanted to buy something then I could get it for you.”

Molly continued to ignore me so I took the hint and buttered my toast in silence.

Nightingale made his appearance as I finished my eggs and I poured us both a cup of tea, milk first the way he likes it. “Back out to Harrow School today sir?” I asked, “Re-interview the House Master?”

“Yes, I think so. It may be that he’s lying to protect Sumner but we need to get to the bottom of it.” Nightingale’s accent is more clipped first thing in the morning, as though he spends his nights conversing with Edwardian ghosts. It always gives me the shivers, in a good way, and sometimes an inappropriate erection if I’ve forgotten to clean the pipes.

I considered making a quip; asking Nightingale if he was the one searching for goth clothing and jewellery on eBay, but then I got sidetracked trying to imagine him wearing it. How many piercings could be hidden beneath those layers?

“Are you quite alright, Peter?” His gaze was cool. I might have been imagining the hint of amusement. Then again, I might not have been.

“Yes sir. More tea sir?”

 

****

 

After the interview it was still a toss-up between Dr Green lying to protect his favourite prefect or lying because he was complicit in fraud. We had one more lead to follow up though, so it was back to the Richmond Theatre for us before lunch. I watched Nightingale’s hands as he drove and decided I wanted to _be_ his driving gloves. Or possibly the steering wheel.

“You were a boarder, weren’t you sir? At Hogwarts?”

“Casterbrook,” Nightingale corrected. “We all were, and my brothers were at Aldenham. Not my sisters of course, not in those days. It’s rather like going back in time isn’t it? Harrow School, I mean. Doesn’t sit well in the modern age of inclusion and social justice.” He slanted a glance my way and I wondered whether he was really asking about outdated public school education or about himself. “What do you think Peter?”

“About the school sir?” I clarified, “I think they should all be closed down. I think they’re breeding grounds for the kind of criminal that escapes justice via the Old Boys’ Club and thinks they can go off and play God in the Colonies once they graduate Cambridge.”

“Hmm.” Nothing about Nightingale’s expression or posture changed but I could sense the self loathing rolling off him all the same. “Relics of a bygone era, to be remembered fondly but nevertheless buried and left to decay naturally. Making way for the new.”

I didn’t like the implications of that at all. “Some things transcend the ages,” I said. “Kindness, for example, and humility. Love.”

He glanced at me again but this time with warm eyes that said my message had been received. I basked in it. “But not public schools.”

“Just my opinion, sir.”

“Duly noted.”

 

****

 

In the shooting range Nightingale’s hair looked soft, kinked against his skull in schoolboy waves. I thought about the military-style bristled hairbrush I’d seen in his toiletry bag that time in the hospital, which Molly must have packed for him. It was pretty weird that I wanted to smell his hair, there’s no denying it.

“Did your... sisters? Sister?”

“Sisters plural.” Nightingale confirmed. “Two, in point of fact.”

“Right. So did your sisters get any kind of formal education then, or was that reserved for the boys back in the day?”

“They learned to read and write of course, probably some basic mathematics. Girls did different things I think. I don’t really know, I wasn’t exactly privy to the details.”

“Different things like what?”

“Poetry, music, needlework. Now, pay attention please.” Nightingale’s fireball was tight and bright. It travelled faster than the eye could follow and burnt right through the heart of the target to leave a scorch mark on the wall padding. There’s nothing more attractive than his unassuming competency. I felt a deep empathy with the burnt-through target. “Your go Peter.”

I closed my eyes, the better to concentrate, and shaped the forma in my mind. My fireball was larger but duller, a red dwarf to Nightingale’s neutron star, and it hit the shoulder of the target reasonably hard, burning through. There were no matching scorch marks on the wall behind but it was still one of my more successful attempts.

“Not bad,” Nightingale allowed, which was high praise from him. I preened a little and he shook his head, smiling at my antics as he reeled in the burnt target to be replaced by a fresh one.

“So, did Molly get any schooling?”

“Molly? Not of the traditional kind, no. I remember a few of the older masters who were quite protective of her though. They would have known and cared for her since she was a child. She learnt to read and write somewhere, certainly. Are there certifications in Home Economics still?”

I shrugged. It hadn’t exactly been my forte at school.

“Well, if there were then I’m sure Molly would outclass almost everyone.”

There was no arguing with that. Hot eels may not be the usual modern day snack but you could be sure that Molly’s hot eels were a fine example of the dish, and perfectly prepared to conform to standards as laid out in The Adulteration of Food and Drugs Act 1860, or something. “I was thinking I could help her set up some social media accounts,” I said. “A recipe blog if she wanted, that kind of thing.”

Nightingale smiled at me again but this time it was the kind of smile that was simultaneously fond, vaguely exasperated and a little pitying (I get this one a lot). “I’m sure she’ll let you know if she isn’t interested,” he said.

It was the perfect response. I was 99% sure Nightingale had no grasp of what ‘social media’ or ‘blogs’ were but equally sure he had heard scare stories about them. His trust in Molly was unquestioning though, and I loved him for it.

 

****

 

Chalmers was waiting for us on Thursday afternoon in the courtyard at The Folly. He attempted a half-arsed ambush after we’d parked the Jag.

He was a classmate of Sumner’s, Year Eleven, spectacled and spotty. He was the skinny kid who hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet and they probably picked on him at school. He thought that magic was his salvation and had undoubtedly read Harry Potter too. I felt a flash of irritation at him for conforming to stereotype, until I saw the Cognitionis Arcana in his hands and recognised that he meant to open it.

I dived at him, knowing, even as I did it, that I wasn’t close enough to save the day. But there was Molly, suddenly, and I remembered how swift she was; faster than a dragonfly when she wanted to be.

Chalmers’ face was a caricature of surprise when Molly’s steely fingers closed around the book and prevented its opening. He wailed in frustration, struggling against her grasp but she wouldn’t budge.

I pulled up short, hands held out in a placating gesture. _Come on now Steve,_ I was going to say but it was at that moment that Nightingale used _The Voice_.

It was the The Police Voice, the one well practiced by coppers nationwide; the vocal equivalent of the opening music to The Six O’clock News, the one that makes people sit up and listen.

“Mr Chalmers,” Nightingale commanded, “Come here and give that book to me.”

Even Molly spared Nightingale a glance.

I’d had no idea he could do it. I mean, intellectually that was beyond stupid, since the guy was my Governor, but even so, I was completely unprepared. Every part of me, and I mean _every_ part, sat up and begged.

Molly kept her fingers clamped tightly around the book, keeping it closed until Chalmers had relinquished it, somewhat dazedly, to Nightingale's care.

 _I’m going to buy that girl all the goth shit she wants_ , I swore, because Molly, bless her, had just saved our lives.

 

****

 

The internet search history was all I needed to confirm Molly’s shoe size; definitely a UK ladies size 5. I’d toyed with the idea of buying the not-a-muggle t-shirt but it hadn’t seemed enough in the circumstances.

The boots I decided on in the end were the long, mid-shin ones with buckles all the way up, in black, of course. I decided to present them to Molly over breakfast.

I waited for Nightingale to take his seat and stopped Molly with a hand on her wrist when she came to collect my empty plate. “I have something for you,” I said, before she could draw blood. “A thank you for the other day.”

Molly accepted the box with extreme trepidation. Nightingale threw me a perplexed look as she opened it but I wasn’t going to spoil the surprise.

The moment Molly touched the leather there was a resounding *crack.* Nightingale leapt to his feet and Molly grasped at her chest.

 _Shit_ , I thought. _Can’t I do anything right?_

Molly held out her hands to fend off Nightingale’s concern, a single tear tracking down her face. “Molly,” Nightingale said, sending me a glare, “Molly? Are you okay?”

Molly drew herself up, wiping at her face with a lacy sleeve.

A revelation struck me. “Sir,” I said. “Sir, did you see the second Harry Potter movie?”

“ _Peter_ ,” Nightingale hissed, “I hardly think now is the time-”

“It’s just Dobby, sir. He was a house elf... kind of a slave and he could only be freed by receiving clothing from his master.”

“Molly’s not a-” Nightingale began in annoyance but fell silent. His face moved though annoyance to anguish as the possibility dawned on him. It was painful to watch. “Molly?” he asked, gently, “Was there a spell keeping you bound to The Folly?”  

Molly didn’t nod but she dropped her gaze to the tiled floor and it was confirmation enough.

Nightingale sat heavily in his chair. "I had no idea,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

The ensuing silence was awkward, to put it mildly.

“So, are you going to try them on or what?” I said, to break the tension.

Molly actually quirked the tiniest smile at me, and bent to unlace her Victorian boots.

It was my turn to squeeze Nightingale’s shoulder. He tensed up and a strange shaky gasp escaped him, which he tried to cover by clearing his throat. He didn’t try to break the contact though, or escape my touch. “I think the time has come, Peter,” he said, “When we should be making our own breakfast.”

Molly paused in her boot lacing to glare daggers at him, one eyebrow raised in challenge. I had to laugh.

Nightingale held his hands up. “We have to do something,” he said earnestly, almost miserably.

“Molly, how about a salary,” I said. “We can do that, right? A full time wage?”

Molly looked thoughtful, possibly thinking of all the steampunk t-shirts she could purchase on eBay.

“All residential and other benefits included of course.”

“The Folly is Molly’s home, Peter, moreso than yours or even mine,” Nightingale said sternly, “But Peter’s right,” he admitted, turning to Molly. “If you’re going to be making our breakfasts then you should be getting paid to do it, not to mention all the other meals, cleaning, washing and...” he looked to me for help, floundering in the face of complex domesticity.

I took the baton. “The, er, domestic miracles you perform every day?”

“Quite.”

Molly didn’t actually roll her eyes but she did a fine job of projecting mental eye rolling. She rose up onto her tiptoes a few times to test the flexibility of her new boots and projected satisfaction without any discernible facial movement.  

“They look good,” I told her.

Molly turned on her heel and fetched the eggs for Nightingale's breakfast, and that was pretty much the end of that.

 

****

 

I went to find Nightingale later, with a snifter of the brandy I know he likes. He was in the Mundane Library, chilling in a leather desk chair, legs crossed with a heavy tome balanced on the desk’s edge.

He accepted the brandy with a grateful smile and laid out the tome in my direction for perusal. “Somebody bound Molly to this place using Cowper’s shackling spell,” he said. “She couldn’t have left if she’d wanted to.” His voice was schooled to neutrality but I could sense the disgust he felt at the idea. “It seems that what I had understood to be an offer of sanctuary was actually more of a prison sentence for poor Molly. I suppose she was deemed too dangerous to be allowed to roam free.”

“You’re dangerous,” I blurted and Nightingale shot me a surprised look, so I added, “And me. Not to mention Beverley and her sisters, and all the Fae. They never kept any of them prisoner, did they?”

“They probably wanted to.”

“You know what sir? I reckon some of your old masters were a bunch of prize tossers.”

Nightingale huffed in what might have been amusement and sipped his brandy delicately.

“Don’t worry, sir. Molly knows it wasn’t you. We can always make it up to her by eating more sheep brains.”

“You know, there is another revelation here Peter,” Nightingale said, tapping the paragraph he had been reading, which, thank God, was written in the Queen’s (or more likely in some late King’s) English. It read:

_‘...tis clearly indicated that this spelle may be only conjured by the lord and master of the residency, which may be only one person or also a mistress of the same standing, or in the case of a marriage or business partnership, by either party commanding authority. Breaking of Cowper’s binding must also be performed by such a party, or by their legitimate successors.’_

I let that sink in. “So, you think The Folly sees us as a business partnership sir?” I asked, my heart doing the crazy dance again. I couldn’t believe he’d actually gone there.

Nightingale gave me a long look that made me want to swallow my tongue. It was the kind of look that said he was considering just how much he wanted to shut me up, and also just how creative he wanted to be about it. “If you’re going to insist on calling me sir,” he said, slowly, in the filthiest voice I had ever heard, “You can at least do it in my bed.”

It was then that my brain shorted out, thus excusing me of any responsibility for my actions (it’s a legitimate legal defence: Mitigation of Responsibility, look it up). I followed Nightingale out of the library and up the Eastern Staircase.

 

****

 

Molly stood as still as the statue of Sir Isaac Newton in her long raincoat and new boots. Neither wizard noticed her in his eagerness to climb the stairs. She allowed her eyes to actually roll this time, since no one was watching.

She gave them time to ascend two floors and waited to hear the click of the bedroom door before slipping out to explore the night.

 

 

 

_Day is ending, birds are wending_

_Back to the shelter of each little nest they love_

_Night shades falling, love birds calling_

_What makes the world go round? Nothing but love_

_When whippoorwill calls_

_And evening is nigh_

_I hurry to my blue heaven_

_I turn to the right_

_A little white light_

_Will lead you to my blue heaven_

_A smiling face, a fireplace, a cozy room_

_A little nest that's nestled where the roses bloom_

_Just Molly and me_

_And baby makes three_

_We're happy in my blue heaven_

_A smiling face, a fireplace, a cozy room_

_A little nest that's nestled where the roses bloom_

_Just Molly and me_

_And baby makes three_

_We're happy in my blue heaven_

_Fly birdie back home_

_\- My Blue Heaven, Donaldson/Whiting (1924)_


End file.
